The song “I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream” came out in 1927, raving about ice cream, not custard. In January 2023, the song entered the public domain. By then, the original lyrics had been around so long they reached freely recognized status. During the years after its first release, all anyone had to say was “I scream,” and everyone within earshot knew the rest of the line, chiming in loud, clear, and full of laughter. One of the songwriters, Howard Johnson, reached the peak of his career when, in 1970, he was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame.
My story begins around that time. In 1971, I married an Air Force guy, and moved away from home at 17. Homesick with no family around, my husband and I grew up fast as we made a life in North Carolina. We waited, dreading he would receive Vietnam orders when he re-enlisted.
The orders rolled in. First, a sigh of relief. Not Vietnam. That meant not being separated for a year. Instead, our orders read Okinawa, Japan. Where? A reprieve, a tiny island no bigger than a postage stamp on a world map, and far, far away. Neither of us had travel experience, or knew anything but the South. Even Ken’s early days of training and first assignment took place within a few hours of Virginia. Culture shock set in. He reported first, and established housing. My first flight ever went from Virginia to New York to California, to Hawaii to Okinawa. It took more than 24 hours, with a baby in tow.
After arriving in Okinawa, we discovered homesickness came in many flavors. Even on an island paradise, we longed for home and family. We dreamed about happier times, and promised ourselves we would make it through. We dreamed of Carl’s Frozen Custard, the representation of comfort food and familiarity. We drooled over mental sensations of a pineapple malt, so thick the straw stood still, straight up, unmovable. The malt left grit on the tongue, and longing in the heart.
In 1947, Carl Sponseller opened a little white cinder block frozen custard shop at 2200 Princess Anne St. in Fredericksburg, Virginia. He put in glass windows on three sides, and fashioned neon into a sign that read “CARL’S.” By the late sixties, when Ken and I began dating, everyone went to Carl’s for date nights, after the movies, after sports—no matter the weather: hot, cold, rainy, or muggy. Carl’s—the destination. Open seven days a week, everyone went there at some point. Carl’s featured rapid cashiers from Mary Washington College (whew wee, a definite draw for teen boys), no cash registers, cash only, instant totals, and rapid-fire declarations of, “We need change.” A strawberry sugar cone glistened in mind’s eye, with its gigantic swirl, twisting twice as tall as the competitors’ round scoops.
Each year from Valentine’s Day week until the week before Thanksgiving, Carl’s was the place to go (the shop closes down during winter months). Frozen custard contained a much higher fat content, rendering a smooth and thick result, a creamy texture superior to ice cream. The parking lot was always full and required tight maneuvering. A little guy stood guard there, making sure people did not lolly-gag. We longed for Carl’s. We dreamed of custard. After that three-year assignment in Okinawa, we arrived home for a quick visit until we took off for South Dakota. Carl’s, yeah! Home life was the same. Carl’s did not change, exactly as we remembered. We stood in line with cash, and sat on the concrete dividers once our order whipped out of the sliding glass window.
A year in South Dakota turned us upside down again. We endured blizzards, scorching heat, and homesickness. Another baby arrived, and we dreamed of Carl’s. Home! We needed home. Many different experiences matured us, but we thought longingly of what we left behind. This time, we dreamed of oozy hot chocolate syrup melting into smooth mounds of chocolate custard, melding together flavors and textures. Carl’s represented the best of our past, and the promise of our futures.
Orders arrived after another reenlistment. Germany this time, and a long way from home again. Culture shock was on the horizon, but we had a short home visit before arriving in Germany. Ah! Carl’s stayed just the same. The same hours, the same place, the same look, the same taste. Life moved on, but we could always count on Carl’s. Our town healed our souls, and Carl’s made it special for our hurting hearts. We always dreamed of being in that line, tucked into feelings of comfort in the shadow of that little building. At some point, Mary Washington College became University of Mary Washington, but the cashiers could still tell you your total instantaneously. In fact, today, the shop continues to be run by the same family and remains a cash-only business.
After military life ended, we moved back to Virginia. I threw a 50th surprise birthday party for my husband themed after the 1950s TV show “This Is Your Life.” We catered Carl’s and Allman’s, our favorite barbecue spot with memories much like Carl’s. All of them reached 50 years old around the same time in 1998. A lifetime of memories flew by, relived for a moment for our family’s husband, son, dad. That span of time, in part, found itself represented by thick strawberry custard in little Dixie cups.
This article was originally published in American Essence magazine.